


break me open like the sky at the sunrise

by phanatics



Series: kurodai week 2k17 [7]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, KuroDai Week, KuroDai Week 2017, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, i sure seem to love me some pining kuroo, kind of but not really its a little ambiguous honestly, pining!Kuroo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-29 03:28:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10845540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phanatics/pseuds/phanatics
Summary: Kuroo becomes acquainted with the local river god.(Day 7:free day)





	break me open like the sky at the sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> i know im a little late and im still not quite sure what this is supposed to be i just felt like writing something with flowery language and lots of description because im stressed and have had very little time to think about this lol
> 
> not proofread !!! a aaa

They say that there's a god, lying dormant in the river next to Kuroo's village. Kuroo doesn't know exactly who "they" is, but it's what his older sisters say to him whenever they dramatically retell the story beside the communal fire in the stretch of the long evenings. They also say that if you drink its waters, you become blessed; Kuroo has learned to be wary of the things that "they" have to say, because one time Yamamoto was dared to drink from the river and all he got was a stomachache.

There's a lot of different legends that have sprung from the same source; a nameless god rules the waters bordering the ring of villages at the foot of the mountains - kind to weary travellers, unkind to annoying children who throw stones into the riverbed for fun (Kuroo receives a look at that, and he scowls at his sister in response. It only happened once.)

The river runs for miles, unrestrained and chaotic, dipping and curving through the lush valley. When he was younger, Kuroo hadn't been allowed to go near it, but now he's older, more capable, and a lot of his free time is now spent traversing its grassy banks, alone.

He's looking for a god, and he hasn't found one yet, but there's always a feeling that settles in his limbs that keeps him waiting for hours at a time. Hours, for a sign.

The mud is always cold against the soles of his bare feet. It seeps through the gaps in his toes, sends a chill up his spine, an almost tangible sensation.

The river ebbs gently at its banks before swirling to a torrent in the middle, roaring and rushing around protruding rocks scattered through the current. It has to be at least ten feet across, the fronds of grass on the opposite bank waving tauntingly at Kuroo, bright and fresh in the dappled afternoon sunlight.  
   
The first time Kuroo dares to even touch the water, crouches at the bank, and brushes the surface with the tips of his fingers, watches the writhing surface with bated breath.

Nothing happens, and Kuroo is about to give up, disappointed, when there's a rumble so forceful that Kuroo is sure the mountains in the distance have split right through the middle. It shakes the ground. He springs backwards with a startled yelp, sending a spray of dirt into the current as his heart quivers in his throat. He stays hunched, tense, until silence falls again.  
"Uh." His voice cracks. "Hello?"

There's a man sitting a few feet down the bank, cross-legged, expression serene, and the shivers running up Kuroo's spine aren't just from frigidity anymore.

Kuroo doesn't think it's just any man.

His skin is almost translucent, and there are subtle colour shifts, swirling eddies transforming from light blue to muddy brown and back again, billowing under a willowy epidermis.

"Good afternoon." The man - the god's - voice sounds like a babbling spring brook, the roar of the ocean, the thunder of a waterfall. Kuroo’s already drowning in it all.

"Hello," he repeats again, when he finds his voice. "I'm Kuroo."

It's almost teasing, the way the god side-eyes Kuroo and offers him a brief "I know", paired with the ghost of a smirk. His eyes convey nothing.

"What's your name?" He's met with no response, only steady eye contact. The shivers are back.

Kuroo flounders a little, and he's a little desperate not to let this god go, so he runs his mouth in irrelevant conversation, until he feels like it's safe enough to slow down.

His conversational counterpart offers riddles in lieu of answers, talks in cryptic tongues. Kuroo is hopelessly fascinated.

He starts coming down to the river every day. He tries to sneak off when he's finished his chores, ducks through the back entrance from his home and tiptoes through the village so that he doesn't get caught. He's successful most times, and his least favourite days are the ones where he's forced back home to help someone cook the dinner.

Most days Kuroo can dip his fingers into the water, sit on the edge of the bank, and the god will appear, glassy in the pinpricks of summer sunlight, as ephemeral as a wisp of smoke. He's scared that even a slight breeze will blow him away, but there's something about him that exudes solidity; he's rooted in the river. He reminds Kuroo of the earthy smell that comes after the rain, the steady drip of residual raindrops on the boughs of the trees when the clouds have finally cleared.

Kuroo has friends in his village, but they're nothing compared to the human-shaped infinity that indulges him in the lazy afternoons.

He's nameless, and therefore he's untouchable, and it makes Kuroo ache with longing, a desire to make him his own; he calls him 'Sawamura', secretly, in his head, pulls him down from his invisible pedestal far enough that his breath doesn't catch in his throat trying to speak to him. It's a simple name, far too simple for someone like a god, but Kuroo needs the mundanity as an anchor.

He asks mainly for stories, and is content to just sit and listen as the god weaves tales from eons, pulling anecdotes from a lifetime of infinities as easily as the children in the village pluck butterflies from the air with their crude, homemade nets. Kuroo hears of travellers, of warriors, of lovers; endless cycles, endless tragedy, the inevitability of an end from the perspective of someone who lives in his own eternity.

As often as he can, he visits the river, but as summer melds into autumn and the landscapes start to lose their idyllic edge, Kuroo has to relinquish, instead helping the community tend the crops and the animals. He doesn't forget the river god as winter latches its cruel teeth onto the valley, but he doesn't tell anyone about his discovery either, not even his sisters.

The arrival of spring comes far too late, and the river floods with the addition of all the melting snow from the mountain peaks. There's something frenzied and tumultuous about the white-crested currents; none of the warmth Kuroo had felt last summer. He reaches out, but he can't find the same presence as before.

That summer he gets called away from home, away from the valley, and he spends years he can't keep track of in a foreign city next to the sea, doing merchant work. The tang of salt in the air stings like blood in his throat, and he yearns for freshwater.

The first thing he does when he returns home, tanned and calloused and scarred, but still the same, is visit the river. He scoops up the water, warmer in the summer, like always; splashes it on his face, lets the rivulets run down the back of his neck and off the tip of his nose. He catches sight of his reflection in the still, barely-moving currents by the bank, and startles. Wonders if he's changed more than he thought.

"Hello."

Kuroo startles, and the illusion of his reflection shatters as he jerks around to face the source of the voice.

It's been a while, but he has exactly the same face. Kuroo tells him that, and he laughs lightly; freshwater over pebbles.

"I'm a god," he says, a gentle reminder, because it's obvious. And, of course, Kuroo isn't even a speck of dust on the slate of his eternal lifetime.

Kuroo wants to ask him the question that's been chipping away at his mind like a pickaxe on ice.

"Do you remember me?"

This smile is softer. "I do. It hasn't been as long for me as it has for you, and you were the first company I've had in a few hundred centuries."

Kuroo shifts, ducks his head to hide his quiet elation. Dips the index finger on his right hand into the slow-moving water.

Maybe he'll be another of Sawamura's stories someday. A summer of easy chatter and curiosity, passed onto another generation by an eternal messenger. Kuroo hopes that he's significant enough, important enough, memorable enough, to form a scratch on the slate of a god's endless evocation. He wants to be.

He hopes to be.

 

**Author's Note:**

> it's like one in the morning and i definitely finished this while i was half asleep and i need to stop apologising for the standard of my work honestly 
> 
> also im def not going to be able to get day 8 of kurodai week up tomorrow (today?) honestly i haven't even thought about it yet but i do want to write it when i have a lot less on my plate so sometime in the vague near-future maybe


End file.
